Seven Times Around the Sun
by ichigatsu
Summary: Percy/Penelope. There was once a boy who didn't know his place in the world. Then he met a girl and he thought his place was by her side. He was wrong. ~UPDATE: RATING NOW R~
1. Prologue

Author's Notes: Profuse thanks and adulation to Kacy for editing this. If there's anything lacking here, it's because I couldn't rise up to her challenge, not because of any ineptitude on her part. Ganked many, many things. I'm a very bad girl. Chapter titles taken from "Las Ruinas del Corazon" ("The Ruins of the Heart") by Eric Gamalinda. Original excerpt at the end of the story, and the poem in its entirety is at http://www.livejournal.com/talkread.bml?journal=greatpoets&itemid=128858, if anyone's interested. Also, incorporated something from Jeanette Winterson's "Written on the Body, "Brick" by Ben Folds Five and "Konstantine" by Something Corporate. Written under the influence of Jason Mraz, coffee, and severe nicotine withdrawal. First attempt at het. 

**Seven Times Around the Sun**

He is still lost for words whenever people ask him Why, what went wrong; he never knows what to say when they append I'm sorry and It's such a shame. He stares blankly when they say You'll get over it or These things work out for the best and by the time they get to, Well, she's doing fine now and so are you he excuses himself and leaves. 

Because he isn't doing fine and no matter how many times he looks back on it none of it makes sense, none of it at all. 

TBC


	2. because memory moves in orbits of absenc...

**I: because memory moves in orbits of absence**

The Quidditch World Cup debacle. Two months and Mr. Crouch still jumps at any mention of Winky, still insists on calling him Weatherby. He doesn't know why he slogs so hard; in the end all the credit will go to Weatherby anyway, who doesn't even exist. But still, he keeps at it. Does the research, signs every report with a flourish. Big and bold. "Percival O. Weasley." Maybe one day someone will read it. 

This isn't what he planned for himself. He hopes maybe Mr. Crouch will get sick, give him a chance to show his stuff. Actually, he really hopes Mr. Crouch will croak, but whenever that comes up he squashes it down so he never realises that he had thought it at all. It sickens him with fear, to know that twenty, thirty, forty years from now he will become this bitter, pompous old man-one that many admire but few like, and even fewer love. But nevertheless, he tells everyone how lovely it all is. How important it all is, even if they don't want to listen. 

He wouldn't want anyone to think that what he'd been working for his whole life had turned out to be a mistake. 

Oh, it's pleasant enough at his department. It isn't like school, where doing his work right meant everyone hated him for spoiling their fun. His office is nice. The people are nice. The talk around the water cooler is nice. 

"So, Mrs. Riley, how is your son doing at Beauxbatons?" 

"Oh just lovely. He adores France." 

Even the gossip has no bite. "That Bertha Jorkins. Bit fluffy in the head, isn't she?" 

"Oh now. She has a good nose for stories, you have to give her that." 

"Shame she hasn't come back from her holiday." 

So he jumps at the chance to go out for drinks when he runs into Oliver Wood after work one day. The invitation is a surprise; he and Oliver never shared much of anything, despite having roomed together for seven years. Seven years of talks on Quidditch matches and bantering about girls; borrowing notes and cribbing homework and arguments about lost socks and who left the towels on the floor. And there it ended. The invitation is an empty gesture, a concession to propriety, something Percy understands and is quite good at. 

He knows his lines, plays his part. Old school chum-asks Oliver how being reserve Keeper is panning out, notices Oliver absently rubbing a plain white-gold ring. 

"Found a girl you like better than Quidditch, yet?" 

Oliver stops fiddling his ring, suddenly lights up. "Huh. Yeah. Well, not better than Quidditch." He laughs. "Just as much. She's nutters. Beautiful, and brilliant, but nutters." 

"Does she have a name?" 

"Yeah. Alice. Alice Girdlestone. Her parents hate me, but mine love her. You know how it is." 

_No, I don't, but Percy checks himself in time._ "They think she's too good for you, I suppose." 

"Oh, she is, she is." Oliver looks sheepish. "All those girls I had at school and I had to fall for the woman who shouldn't look at me twice." Percy tries to look interested, waiting to hear more about Oliver's wonder girl. It doesn't take much to get Oliver to talk-Percy had to listen to years of Oliver gleefully recounting his dalliances to him and the other Gryffindor boys. 

So it floors him when instead, Oliver asks, "What about you? Whatever happened to Penelope?" 

He toys with his beer, a real one. After school, he discovered that he couldn't stand that butter crap. He watches beads of moisture slide down the bottle, puddle at the bottom. The pub is almost empty, it being Thursday. There's a man with a piano onstage, a failed attempt at giving the place a touch of class. The clinking of glasses, the tinkling of notes. A plaintive moan that's supposed to pass for singing. "She's a brick and I'm drowning slowly…" 

"Sorry." Percy looks up; Oliver is clearly embarrassed. "I mean, if you don't want to talk about it-it's not like you ever did before." 

"No, I didn't, did I?" He drains the last of his beer. "She's not the kind of girl you ever really talk about, anyway. Not like the ones you were involved with, if I recall correctly." 

At this, Oliver grins. "Too pure and all that, was she? Not like the more, ah, liberal girls _I_ knew." 

He smiles back. The way his lips stretch feels strange, alien. "You could say that." 

Then again, perhaps you couldn't. 

TBC


	3. because that is the nature of love

A/N: Thank you to Lucia Dreams !-lover for their encouraging feedback, but especially to Alix for being the first.

**II: because that is the nature of love **

Beginnings are always mundane. A smile, a greeting, a lapse into awkwardness. How it always starts, for every boy, for every girl in the world. 

It's how it ends where the stories are no longer the same. 

But in this place and time, he hadn't known that. All he knew was that she was beautiful. Clearwater-he remembered a line from a book. _You are a pool of clear water where the light plays_. He looked into her face and unspeakable things were brought to the surface. Fifteen years old. Need and desire followed no rules, would not listen to him. Things he wanted were things one simply did not do. It led to a bad end. But people did do these things. He saw them. Lovers walking down the streets of Hogsmeade, schoolmates sneaking out at night. All cliché, and yet it was the clichés that kept people happy. Fifteen years old: what did he know of how these things came to pass?

There were his parents. Molly and Arthur. Polar opposites; one tall and thin, one short and plump. One forever yelling at the other and one taking it meekly in stride. The meek shall inherit the earth, and that must be true in his father's case if the earth were a pack of children who didn't understand him and a wife who worried and fretted. Sometimes he would see his father look regretfully at his mother as she bustled around the kitchen, look askance at her hands calloused and dry from so many pans scrubbed and drawers laundered. And late at night he would see his mother, lips set in a thin line as she watched his father hunched over a Ministry report or a Muggle contraption. A hug here, a chaste kiss there, and endless talks about the seven of them, _Charlie never writes home I'm worried about Bill all the way there in Egypt you better give your sons a talking to they're your sons too Ginny needs new clothes Ron needs new books well not now Percy doesn't look well you spend too much time at the office how about a night out there's too much to be done around here_. Percy wondered if that was all there was, and what was there before. 

If he were to go by what his brothers had told him, not much. All he'd heard from Charlie and Bill were sniggers about this girl or that, various escapades late at night, and the sudden silence when they realised he was listening in. He'd have thought with two older brothers, wise in the ways of the world, he'd have had a wealth of experience to plumb. But he hadn't known how to ask. 

Charlie, after his second year, catching him on his way out the Burrow for a solitary fly. 

"Didn't make the Quidditch team, eh? Too bad you're allowed a broom just when I leave school." 

Charlie always did have lousy timing. "I didn't exactly _not_ make it, as such-" 

"Nothing to worry about, Perce. I can help you train this summer, and you can have another go next year." 

He'd turned away from Charlie, stared off into the wide blue skies behind the Burrow. "It's not that, I didn't try out at all." 

Charlie had looked at him blankly. "Eh? Why not? And after Mum and Dad got you that broom, too." 

Percy had fidgeted a bit, running his hand up and down the broom handle. "I don't know. It's just- I'd rather just fly without a ball in the way." He had hoped Charlie would have seen that he was impatient to be off. 

Apparently, Charlie hadn't. "Oh. But-" A very long silence. More fidgeting on Percy's part, Charlie's face wrinkled in confusion. "Ah, well. You'll lend the twins your broom sometime, won't you? The way they've been throwing gnomes over the fence, they'll soon be chucking Bludgers like nobody's business." 

He had pushed past his brother. "Just tell me when they need it," he'd called out before mounting his broom and zooming off. 

He couldn't remember talking to Charlie for the rest of the summer. 

-0-

Two summers later. Charlie was home again, still bugging Percy about his broom. Bill had dropped in too, a rare visit, and Mrs. Weasley was monopolising him shamelessly. Ron bouncing off the walls; he was starting his first year at Hogwarts. His father beaming and the twins groaning their disapproval; he'd given the family another prefect. And everything else was changing. He found himself up to his father's ear now, and his voice didn't sound so undignified, uncontrollable any more. The girls in his year were no longer skinny and pigtailed; out of nowhere he had noticed the way Stella Crawford swayed her hips, the way Jerusha Beauchamp's bosom swelled under her robes. A Hufflepuff stealing glances during Herbology, her mild grey eyes peering over a Cantankerous Conker, too mild for him. Oliver asking him to keep the prefects and Filch off his back whilst he sneaked off with a girl to the Quidditch changing rooms; he never agreed to but no-one ever found out, anyway. 

Flying above his village, not too high because too high and he couldn't breathe, he'd never known Ottery St. Catchpole held so many girls. Touching down for an ice-cream at the corner shop, seeing the girl two houses over as if for the very first time. Lucy Mudhoney, flaxen hair that reached to her waist, clear creamy skin unlike his freckled own. Teeth that stuck out a bit too far and a loud braying laugh, but she had such big blue eyes so he had said hello how are you and bought her an ice-cream. They'd played some as kids, but he hadn't seen much of her since he'd gone off to Hogwarts. He'd asked her what it was like studying so close to home. She'd said it was just fine but of course she would have liked to go to Hogwarts all the same. Then he'd seen her looking at him, smiling shyly but with those beautiful eyes suddenly cold and hard, so he'd bought her another ice-cream, his last sickle, and invited her for a walk. They'd dropped all talk of school then, but since he hadn't known of anything else to talk about he'd waited until they wandered off the main road and she'd finished her ice-cream, and kissed her. 

Her mouth was soft and tasted like chocolate, and her lips were pliant, and she was as cold and creamy as her skin. He had somehow known that there should have been more to it than this, but she had pulled away and squeezed his hand and pointed out that it was already dark. So they had walked back to her house, holding hands all the while, where Lucy's mum was waiting on the doorstep with a wand in her hand and a grim look on her face. Where have you been, she had yelled, telling us you're just nipping to town for sweets and look what time it is. Noticing Percy for the first time. And with a Weasley too! Those Weasley men, they never know when to stop. Look at them practically bursting out of their house. Shaking her head. Poor Molly, and she was so lovely. Go on home, boy, before you bring some girl to a bad end. Not to my daughter, you won't. Hustling Lucy into the house, and both not looking back whilst he stood there, in the dark. 

So he had trudged back home, dragging his broom in the dust, expecting his mum to yell at him too. But no-one had noticed he'd gone; they all thought he had been up in his room, reading. The whole lot of them at the kitchen table, passing a photo around whilst Charlie beamed, proudly proclaiming, "Isn't she beautiful?" 

Percy had wondered if he could ask Charlie how he could make things work out for him, too, how to avoid bad ends, when someone thrust the photo into his hands. 

It was a Chinese Fireball. 

-0-

That left no-one but Bill, and there had been but one day that summer when Mrs. Weasley hadn't been hovering about him. Ron had needed to get his Hogwarts things; Mrs. Weasley decided to have Ginny along for the ride. Percy hadn't received anything new, aside from his owl, for he was getting Bill and Charlie's old things, while the twins had gotten _his_ old things in turn. That had left the five of them to hold down the Burrow. Of course the Quidditch players had bolted out of the house as soon as they could, leaving Percy and Bill to tackle the dirty breakfast dishes on their own. 

Bill came to _him_, which was supposed to have made things easier. 

"Prefect," he had said, clapping Percy on the shoulder. A proud smile. "Thinking you'll be Head Boy, too?" 

"Like you?" Percy look puzzled. "I'll try." 

Bill had pulled out his wand, and cast a cleaning charm over the cutlery. "You don't have to be like me, you know." 

The puzzled look had slowly morphed into a scowl. "I'm doing this for myself." 

A sigh. "Suppose it's hard to see that. I'm sorry." 

"Don't be sorry for me, be sorry for Ron. He hasn't even set foot in Hogwarts and already we've all beaten him to it." Percy had waved his own wand, sending the dishes to the sink with a satisfying splash. 

A frown, this time. "To what?" 

"To everything." 

"Well, you're going to have to make sure he doesn't feel that way. You're the big brother now." 

He hadn't meant to say it, wouldn't have said it if he knew it would make Bill pull away. "I've always been the big brother." He'd shrugged, matter-of-factly. "All you and Charlie ever did was look good and chuck a Quaffle at us every now and then." 

"The mouths of babes." Bill had looked at him, glumly. "The twins don't listen to you, though." 

He'd snorted. "They don't listen to _anybody_." 

"So I've noticed. Well. You take care of Ron, then. And Ginny too, when it's her turn." A pause. "I'm sorry no-one's ever taken care of you, Perce." 

It had slipped out before he thought. "Who knows, maybe I just haven't found her yet." 

"_Her_? Did you get into Mum's romance novels or something? That's not the way it works." 

"How does it work, then?" 

Bill had opened his mouth, only to shut it again. 

"How does it work, then?" Percy had repeated, a little more urgency creeping into his voice. 

"Ah. Well. You know, when two people- no. Well. Don't you know _any_ girls?" 

"Of course I do," he'd said indignantly. 

"There you go," Bill had replied, looking strangely relieved. "It's something you have to figure out for yourself."

That was not what he had needed to hear. "Then I will." 

-0-

But in this place and time, he still hadn't figured it out; all he really did know was that she was beautiful. And even _that_ took a while coming. 

He was alone in a room full of trophies and plaques. A quiet place, a place where he could hear himself think. Where his dreams weren't stupid, and where there was no one to roll their eyes at him or tell him to shut up. He looked up at a brass plate of Head Boys and Girls, his eyes lingering over _William Weasley_. 

"My name shall be up there one day." 

He turned to the voice next to him, and saw a small face obscured by masses of soft-looking, curly hair. The only features he could make out with any clarity were her eyes. He always noticed the eyes. And this pair was big and dark and challenging. 

"I didn't know anyone else came here." 

The girl looked away from the wall and smiled. He noticed the eagle on her robes, her tie striped with blue and bronze. "Well, now you do." She extended a hand. "Penelope Clearwater." 

He took it. "Percy Weasley." 

She jabbed a finger at the wall. "I take it William's your brother, then?" 

"Yes." 

"So you'll be the second Head Boy in the family." 

"We don't know that yet." 

She eyed his prefect badge. "You think so. You wouldn't be here staring at this thing if you didn't." 

"Well, what about you?" 

She flipped her hair, and Percy had a good look at her face. Olive skin and full lips, warm and inviting. It belied the way she spoke. "Like I said, I know I'll be on there someday. Have to be." 

He took note of the way she carried herself, her decisive words. "You're very sure of yourself." 

Her laugh came too quickly, loud and dissonant. Weren't girls supposed to sound fairy-like and tinkling, like silver bells? "Oh, no. This is just a front." 

"That so?" He raised an eyebrow. "So what are you really like, then?"

"Why don't you find out for yourself?" 

Not again. 

-0-

But he didn't have time to find out, not really. There was being a prefect, for one thing, and the O.W.L.s, for another. He had to do a good job, he had to get top marks; what for, he hadn't the faintest idea. 

What he saw of her was swift and fleeting. Stolen glances at mealtimes, when he would see her mechanically eating, not alone but always apart. Glimpses when he passed her classroom; watching her in the library, losing her patience with a Hufflepuff in her study group, and subsequently arguing with Madam Pince for the noise she made. At Quidditch matches, jumping up and down when Ravenclaw scored, swearing long and creatively at Slytherin, and nodding in resigned approval at Gryffindor. In the corridors, hearing a loud laugh echoing off the stone walls, seeing a wild mane of hair turning round the corner; he could never quite catch up to her and he was always, always just behind. 

He gave up and smiled more at the gentle Hufflepuffs, didn't come down as hard on the impish Gryffindors. Not for him were the wiles of Slytherin; nor, it seemed, the sharpness of Ravenclaw. 

It never occurred to him to think that he would find her only if she let him. 

-0-

The school year was coming to a close, and Percy once again found himself in the trophy room. 

Looking back, being Prefect wasn't what he thought it would be. All that authority and he was still alone; the power of giving and taking points, it turned out, distanced you from your old friends rather than helping you make new ones. It certainly hadn't helped him get along with Fred and George, and Ron started Hogwarts already determined not to follow in Percy's footsteps. At least he gave his youngest brother that much; Ron was carving out an identity of his own, even if it was nothing but the opposite of all the five Weasley boys that came before him. Still, he did wish Ron would steady himself a bit, try and apply himself instead of wandering around the school with Harry Potter. Ah, well. Maybe he would do a better job as an older brother for Ginny next year. One more year, to be a better brother, to prove himself, and hopefully become Head Boy. He ran his gaze down the brass plate again, but not really reading it- he'd memorised every name long ago. 

Someone poked him from behind, jolting him out of his thoughts. He whirled around, ready to tell off whoever snuck up behind him like that, and maybe take away a few points. 

"Hello." 

Percy tried to arrange his face along more pleasant lines. "Oh. Hello, Penelope. It's nice to see you again." 

"We don't seem to run into each other too often, do we?" 

He fingered his prefect badge. "Oh. Well, I've been keeping busy- not much time for just hanging about places." 

"But I'm sure you hang out here." She smiled. "Although before me, you were alone." 

"Well, yes." And that was it. Hadn't he been waiting for this? Hoping for it, this entire year? He looked around the room, looking for something he could comment on, anything interesting that he could say. 

She saved him from himself. "Why here?" 

"It's the only place that's quiet, and where no one would accuse me of plotting mischief, if they found me. Especially at late hours." Percy fiddled with his robes, and stared fixedly at the wall. "Why do _you_ go here?" 

"To figure out what I'm going to be, and what I have to do. It's all here." Penelope gestured to the awards, the plaques, the trophies. 

Percy's gaze followed the sweeping motions of her hands. "You want your name etched on a plate somewhere?" 

Her laugh again. Louder than what people would consider proper, decorous. "Sure. Something solid to show that the time I spent here wasn't entirely worthless." 

"Excuse me?" Percy said, disbelievingly. 

"You're not Muggle-born." He nodded uncertainly. "Well, then. Not all Muggle parents are happy with magic in the family. Like mine." 

"And having your name here will make things all right with them." 

"Maybe. But even if doesn't make things all right with them, it'll make things all right with me." The corners of her mouth drooped a little as she ran her hand lightly across a silver loving cup. "Or at least, make things easier when I go home." 

"Give you a hard time of it, do they?" She jerked her head up sharply. "What would you know about it? Your family's as pureblooded as it gets." 

"Even purebloods have their odd ones out," he said, almost too low for her to hear. 

Almost. 

"And in the Weasley clan, that would be you, wouldn't it?" 

He laughed dryly, and shrugged. "Well. Someone has to be. What about the Clearwater clan?" 

"No odd ones out. Just a bright shining hope that wasn't the kind of bright they were wishing for." She straightened herself up, made for the door. "Why don't you write to me sometime? Keep us from going insane over our families. Cooped up with them the whole summer. All that heat can drive one crazy." 

And she was gone. 

TBC


	4. because the angels tremble from so much ...

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to all the guys who ever whined to me about their girl problems. I apologise for turning your stories into a Harry Potter fanfic. Also for all the _torpe_s. You know who you are. May you find the courage to finally ask the girl out.

Thanks to all those who reviewed, and especially to dart kid for the extra feedback. 

**III: because the angels tremble from so much beauty**

That may have been a stroke of luck, for his best bet was the written word. 

Perhaps it was because he was so used to reining himself in, because when Percy spoke it never came out the way he wanted it to. And although most of the time he was guarded, measured, he would occasionally blurt out things people didn't want, didn't need to hear. Charlie had laughed at him once, telling him that Percy had the worst case of verbal diarrhoea he'd ever seen. 

Ink on parchment. Solid, real, comforting. He could plot what to say, scratch it out if it was wrong. Think it over. Tear drafts to shreds if they weren't right, without anyone seeing him lose control. And if it didn't work out, he had the old standby. _My owl got lost, he's a bit bird-brained ha ha, so sorry_.

But even with all his planning, he never thought of what he would do once the summer was over, once the letters stopped coming; what he had to do when he was with her, in the flesh, once again. 

After all, when all was said and done, he was just a boy.

-0- 

This was harder than he had thought. 

Percy was bent over his desk, with a piece of blotted parchment before him. Dear Penelope; no, that sounded so formal. Dear Penny; maybe only her friends called her that. Who were her friends? Did he count? 

Hello, how's your summer going? Rotten. She'd already told him so before it began. 

Someone banged at the door. "Hey, Perce," he heard Ron's voice bellow through the wood. "You planning on eating sometime? Mum's been calling you down for ages now!" 

Night had fallen without his noticing it. He tossed the parchment away. He decided to abandon the whole idea; maybe he would say yes to that Hufflepuff in Herbology next time she asked him out for a butterbeer. 

"What have you been doing, anyway?" Ron asked him as he opened the door. "You've been in here since noon!" 

Percy flexed his fingers, noting that they were copiously ink-stained. "Studying for the year ahead, of course. As you should be." Ron rolled his eyes, but Percy ignored this. "Go tell Mum I'll be right down; just have to wash up." 

When the frenzy the Weasleys called dinner was finally over, Percy plodded back to his room again. 

There, on his desk, was a letter. 

The envelope was made of white Muggle linen paper, not parchment, and unmarked save for his name. He slit it open carefully and put it aside for his father, for nothing was too banal for Arthur Weasley as long as it was Muggle. 

He unfolded a piece of white paper, lined with blue, and with three evenly spaced holes on the side. It was covered with writing, large and loopy but neat, and completely devoid of inkblots. 

_Dear Percy, _

_I do hope you don't mind my writing to you- I did say I might to keep my family from driving me nutters. _

He quickly scanned the page, his gaze resting on certain words- _hot...brothers...sisters...barmy...you...prefect...me...you...what would you do?...help...me...you...what do you do?...tell me...tell you...write back. _

And he would read this letter again, knew that he would come to memorise every word, but right now all he could see was the bold, clear signature at the bottom of the page. 

_Penelope Clearwater _

She made it too easy for him. 

-0-

_Dear Penelope, _

_Congratulations! Your parents must be proud; a prefect is a prefect, whether in a Wizarding school or Muggle. _

_There's no real reason to worry about how you'll do. Just stick to the rules and make sure everyone does the same- admittedly, it's the last part that's hard. But take away enough points and give the good students a few, and they'll listen to you. Well, unless you happen to run into my brothers. _

_Speaking of which, they're not driving me as crazy as I thought they would. Maybe because I spend all my time up here in my room, or swimming- there's a swimming hole near our house. It's really too hot to do anything else. _

_If you'd like to know anything else, about being a prefect or anything, really, just feel free to write back. I hope your summer is going well. _

_Percy Weasley _

He wrote it down all in one go, and sent Hermes on his way, for he knew that if he reread, revised, he would never write her back. Still, as soon as his owl left his windowsill he regretted it, realising how stupid he sounded. "Feel free to write back?" What was he, customer service? 

It must not have mattered to Penelope, though, for Hermes returned with a letter the very next day. 

_Dear Percy, _

_Well, I had to do something laudable or my parents would have found a way to take me out of Hogwarts. They've never really been happy with my being a witch, you know. Right before they sent me on the Hogwarts Express the first time, my mum told me, and I quote, "You had better conduct yourself creditably from now on, and not be the hoyden you were in your old school. Any shenanigans from you, young lady, and your father and I are storming that castle ourselves and bringing you home." They haven't said anything like that since, so I assume I'm doing all right. _

_I had hoped we would be able to spend the holidays at the sea, but no such luck. My sisters and I are making do with the garden hose, and going around the house with as little clothing as possible. My little brother is lucky- being only two means he doesn't really bother with such conventions as clothes. _

_Are you going anywhere for the holidays? I'm sorry if I'm running your owl ragged, but my parents refuse to get me any sort of wizarding pet. My school things are good enough, they say, I don't need any more. If it's causing you too much trouble, I'll try and see if there's any owl post near our place. _

_Your friend, Penny _

His friend. 

His friend, going around the house with almost no clothes on. 

As soon as he wrote his reply, he was going to take a long, cold shower. It was a sweltering summer, after all. 

-0- 

_Dear Penny, _

_It's no trouble about Hermes; I don't really send that many letters, and I think he's grateful for the exercise. _

_Your mum called you a hoyden? Never would have believed it. Ravenclaws seem incapable of getting into any trouble. Then again your parents must be pleased, you aren't the hoyden that you said you used to be, then. _

He rambled a bit about his brothers, the simple summer pleasures they had at the Burrow. He ended with another request that she write back soon, and hoped that he didn't sound too needy. 

_Dear Percy, _

_That's a misconception Ravenclaws will do nothing to erase. But since I trust you to be discreet, let me tell you this- that "nose stuck in a book" image we have is a complete lie. The problem with most Ravenclaws is that they're so smart they don't have to study. The sort of people who read the book once and get top marks the next day. (Which makes me wonder what _I'm _doing in Ravenclaw...) That leaves a lot of time to think up and do all sorts of crazy things, but unlike you Gryffindors, we're clever enough not to get caught. _

And with each piece of parchment, with each swoop of owl and flapping of wing, he felt something swell within him. Perhaps he was finally feeling something of the vaunted Gryffindor courage. Or maybe he was just losing his head. 

Drops of ink, scratch of quill, and a Muggle phrase echoing through his head. _Damn the torpedoes_. 

_Dear Penny, _

_Cocky, aren't we? _

And two hours later, Hermes was back again. 

_Dear Percy, _

_I think you like it when I'm cocky._

A hoot of protest, a proffered owl treat, and a less-than-affectionate nip on his finger. 

_Dear Pen, _

_You're right._

-0- 

And they wrote, and wrote, and wrote. 

At first he held himself back, his letters simply replies to her questions and silly stock phrases one normally found in greeting cards. Soon he realised that wasn't fair, for she wrote to him about anything and everything, without reserve. So he let slip a little about his dreams. A little about his thoughts. And when he found that she didn't stop writing to him, didn't let on that she found what he wanted and hoped for stupid, that in fact she wanted to know more, he wrote a little bit more and a little bit more, though he never could be as open as she was. 

He liked Defence Against the Dark Arts, she had a hankering for Potions. He told her about moonlit broomrides when then rest of the Burrow was sleeping, and she told him of sailing into the heart of the storm. He told her about a Weird Sisters concert Bill had dragged him and Charlie to; she asked if they were anything like the Super Furry Animals. She wanted to go around the world, and try everything at least once; he was content to tell her of his O.W.L.s results and his hopes for the N.E.W.T.s. She dreamed of meeting famous people, wrote pages about mosh pits and rock bands and films and poetry. He said there wasn't much poetry in the wizarding world. They both liked the dungeons, for they seemed so far removed from the rest of Hogwarts; he told her rumours of secret tunnels and she returned with stories of hidden staircases. 

Slowly, the letters changed tone and substance. He told her of the kids at Ottery St. Catchpole, the ones that didn't go to Hogwarts; she told him about a Muggle boy her parents wanted her to marry, that actually they didn't really care for the boy, just that he was Muggle. He told her how he always looked at the eyes first and she told him how she wanted to be kissed. He went back to complaining about his brothers, and she wrote about veiled places, quoted Muggle love songs. 

His dreams the rest of the summer were of dungeons and secrets and long curly hair. 

TBC


	5. because the young must sleep with their ...

A/N: TBC means "To Be Continued."

Thank you to Mar and Liebling for the helpful reviews, and hello again to Dart Kid. Many warm fuzzies for actually following this story.

I don't know how American ratings work. As far as I know this chapter ups the story to an R. I've seen far worse in the cinemas.

**IV: because the young must sleep with their eyes open **

The beginning of the school year, and a Weasley already in trouble. 

Ron opened his Howler, fingers trembling and face tomato-red. With every eye in the Great Hall on his youngest brother, Percy slipped out. Not that he needed a distraction to go unnoticed, but one never knew. 

Penelope hadn't been in the Prefects compartment at the Hogwarts Express, and she had been busy rounding up the Ravenclaw first years after the Sorting Feast. But then, he wouldn't have known how to approach her anyway; somehow when the summer ended, what they had left parchment and carried over here. 

If they had anything at all. 

He walked briskly down the corridors, peering into the rooms he passed by as if he were merely patrolling the school like any good prefect. Empty, empty, closed, empty, the staff lounge, empty, the Prefects' bathroom. Up the stairs. Another corridor, more staircases moving. A gaggle of Slytherins chattering loudly. One more staircase swinging to the right. The trophy room. 

She was inside. 

He paused at the doorway, wondering how he should approach her. There had been no promises made in their letters. He should know. He'd memorised every word she wrote him. 

Suddenly, a strong gust of wind shut the heavy wooden doors behind him. How, he didn't know, but then one never knew much about _how_ and _why_ at Hogwarts. One simply _did_. 

She turned around. "Percy," she said, her eyes bigger and darker than he remembered. 

"Yes," he said, quickly crossing the short distance between them. 

She took his hands in hers, and then suddenly he was upon her, drawing her closer to him, kissing her. 

Her hair was rougher, less soft than he had imagined, but it didn't matter. He kissed her the way he'd wanted to all summer long, reminded her of the way the long summer had been. Too warm, a bit sticky, heavy and languid. 

When he'd finally pulled away, she touched the tip of his nose, and smiled. 

"Do you know, I've been wanting you to do that for a very long time." 

-0-

Playing games again, chasing down in hallways, just like last year. 

Except this time, she ran after him, and he let himself be caught.

After prefect meetings, lingering too long before he made his way back to the Gryffindor Tower. The Head Boy and Girl would smile in approval, whilst the other prefects would shrug their shoulders and roll their eyes, for he always stayed behind to put back the chairs, clear up the scattered parchment, make sure the minutes were in order. 

Such a good boy. 

Then he'd walk slowly, letting the dark passageways swallow him. Filch and Mrs. Norris didn't bother him; he had the protection of his prefect badge and the knowledge that he had every right to be here. 

And no one would see his robes being tugged into corners, his lanky body disappearing behind pillars. No one saw the fumbling and groping and hesitant kissing, the slight pause where they both realised they were going too far and too fast, then the sighs, the murmurs. We shouldn't. We can't. Blouses buttoned, robes fastened, badges pinned. 

After the first prefects' meeting, he got as far as her breast. Then lower after the next meeting, more skin bared after the next. And each time he felt as if they were in their own little world, this place of pure pleasure where promises were made and desires were fulfilled. All from kisses and touches and caresses, driving him mad, making him anticipate just how good the real thing would be like. 

Another tryst, and this time there was no more pausing, no more whispered protests. They had both tasted too much, hoped for more, to make them content. He surged on, single-mindedly, knowing that if he waited he would lose his nerve. They were half-naked, and shivering, and he knew they would catch their death of cold because it wasn't right to be surrounded by cold air when their bodies felt like they would catch on fire. He heard her hiss in pain, felt something give, then something trickled down his leg, smelling of metal and sex. He pushed in, out, in, out, until he finally came. He waited inside her, until she gave out a tiny, strangled cry. 

When he opened his eyes, she had tears in her own, and he apologised over and over again. Did I hurt you, did we go too fast, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. He held her, and he thought it strange that his bones felt like they'd melted whilst her body was rigid and tight as stone. 

She smoothed back his hair. "That's not what you want to ask, Percy. That's not what you want to say." 

He felt a strange current of violence surging through him, an urge to smack her for putting words in his mouth. Instead, he asked, "What did I want to say, then?" 

"You just want to know, if it was as good for me as it was for you."She kissed him on the forehead, on each cheek, then held his face in her tiny hands and smiled at him. 

He smiled back, even managing to chuckle a little at the cliché. But deep in his heart, he hoped that wasn't the case, because it wasn't much good for him at all. 

-0-

"Ow!" Percy said, jerking away. He touched his neck and felt dampness; he licked his fingers and tasted blood. 

"Did I hurt you?" Penelope asked. 

"Yes!" Percy said sharply. He thought better of it, and said, "I mean, it wasn't really necessary for you to be so- so rough." 

Penelope laughed. "Yes, it was. I needed to know if I could hurt you, Percy." 

"Why would you want to hurt me?" 

"I didn't say I wanted to hurt you. I needed to know if I _could_." 

-0-

A hand, reaching out, pulling him into dark and dank and damp. 

"Penelope- " 

"Shh." A finger, moist, sliding gently across his lip. 

"We'll be caught this time- " 

Her breath gently thrumming against his ear. "Don't worry. I made sure we won't." 

This is now. 

She pulls off his glasses. He can only hope that she keeps them safe. For now, he is blind; all he has are his other four senses. Her lips on his; gentle at first, sucking. He tries to concentrate, but there's the smell of old potions and cauldron explosions putting him off, distracting him. Her hands reaching up to gently stroke his hair, the tips of her fingers skimming over his scalp, doing their best to bring him here. He puts his arms around her, clutches her ass, pulls her closer to him. And something goes off; she presses against him, starts clawing against his back, kisses like devouring. He doesn't know what to do. 

He tries to hide his ignorance; he cups her face gently and starts kissing her softly. She pulls away and shakes her head and nuzzles his neck, murmuring "Break me, break me," so he does. He tries to be suave, and sure, to make up for last time, for all the times before. Somehow he manages to peel off her robes as if he's been doing this his whole life. His robes, too. He sees her teeth flashing white in the darkness, and he knows he's not fooling her. Unhooks her bra, carefully; he can't afford to buy her a new one. Ducks down, fumbles for what seems far too long before he clamps his mouth over one nipple, starts sucking. She tastes clean, and she's soft and warm, and his arms are around her waist and tossing her about until she's the one with her back against the wall. Break her, yes. He goes to the breast that's been left neglected, and her nails are digging into the skin below his neck. That iron smell of blood; he presses against her. Skin on skin. He hears himself grunt, and winces inwardly; he didn't know he could sound so uncouth. She grabs one of his hands and shoves it down between her legs. Moist, and hot, there's something lost in the folds of flesh, small and hard and throbbing, and he worries it. She's mewling like a cat now, and it's just too bloody hot, and his whole body feels so hard he wonders why he hasn't crushed her yet. Both her legs wrapped around him now, if he doesn't do this right they'll both fall. She's pinned to the wall; there'll be bruises on both of them later. Her hand again, she's guiding him, telling him where to go, but he's had enough of that so he tosses her hand away and spreads her open and just pushes his way inside. It's going to be different this time. It's going to be better. 

And over and over and over he goes, face pressed against her neck and her head bobbing. The dull sound of flesh slapping on stone. Her hair tangled wildly about him, tickling his ears and some straying into his mouth, but he doesn't care, she's so hot and she's all around him, tightening around his cock and arching up and holding her breath, breathe Penny damn you breathe or we're going to die here, you and me. One last thrust for her, he thinks she got what she wanted because she spasms around him for what seems like forever, shuddering and gasping and thank Merlin she's breathing again, then one last thrust for him and he's completely gone. 

That was then. 

-0-

Another dark corner, the same whispered charm. 

Bruises and bites and blood; the Hogwarts robes and Weasley jumpers hid them well. 

He went around as always, taking away points, burying his nose in parchments and musty tomes, trying to hold his own against Fred and George and the spectres of Bill and Charlie. Acting busy and important, fussing over Ginny, putting some second-year Slytherins in their place. 

She seemed insatiable, sometimes; he never knew where she would come from but whenever she dragged him he would be only too happy to oblige. He wondered if he hurt her, if it wasn't a little too much, sometimes, but she wanted it. She didn't even ask, or beg, she simply took and he couldn't say no. She needs this, he would say to himself, sometimes. I need this. 

The rest of the time, though, he wouldn't give it any thought at all. It happened, that was all. 

And all was as it should be. 

-0- 

This time, an empty classroom. It was different. No pain, more room, less bruising. 

Yet she was still shaking by the time they put their clothes back on. 

"Penny?" He held her, she leaned into him but didn't seem any calmer. 

"It's Mudbloods that- that thing is attacking, Percy. Whatever it is that's coming from the Chamber of Secrets. Mudbloods all."

He jerked his head away from her, looked at her sternly. "Don't say that word. It's ugly." 

"But it's true." 

He couldn't promise her anything, couldn't vow to protect her from something he didn't even know. But he could kiss her, and make her feel safe, so that was what he did.

"Percy?" 

That wasn't Penny's voice. It was higher and coming from behind him. 

He and Penelope broke apart, stared at the figure standing in the doorway. "Ginny, what- " 

But his little sister had already turned and fled. 

-0-

Fear. 

"_That Ravenclaw prefect, Penelope Clearwater_- " 

"_Petrified_- " 

"_Attacked_- " 

Fear. If they hadn't snuck around, if only they had stuck to the rules. Nausea. His feet pounding on stone floors. So cold. To the hospital wing, where he wondered why there was no heat and why his blood wouldn't flow. 

Then revulsion, at himself, looking at the girl frozen on the bed. He tasted the bitterness creeping into his mouth, and bolted out of the hospital wing before he could be really, truly sick. 

He wished she could always look that peaceful.

-0-

He didn't know where he got the stones to demand that Madam Pomfrey let him stay. But she did, and he held Penelope's hand the whole time the school nurse administered the Mandrake potion. 

Penelope opened her eyes to Percy sitting by her bedside, looking near tears. "Penny. Oh Merlin, you're- Penny, I'm sorry. You shouldn't have- I could have- I didn't do enough. I couldn't save you." 

She squeezed his hand. "You didn't have to save me. You just had to be here when I woke up." 

TBC


End file.
